


A Favor Between Friends

by Roar_Ra



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roar_Ra/pseuds/Roar_Ra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aka, that one time when Natasha asked Clint to have sex with her, and it made Clint so mad he nearly threw Steve Rogers off a building.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A favor Between Friends**

* * *

_Aka, that one time when Natasha asked Clint to have sex with her, and it made Clint so mad he nearly threw Steve Rogers off a building._

* * *

She is ice. I am stone. We are the cut from the same cloth. Ruthless assassins, incapable of normal relationships and we are both just fine with that, thankyouverymuch.

Our partnership is perfect, legendary. We trust each other and no one else.

Then Captain  _fucking_  America appears and screws it all up.

She's looking at me as though it's the simplest favor in the world.

She wants me to have sex with her…so she can attempt relationship with Steve  _fucking_ Rogers!?

I may need to back up a little here…

* * *

Sitting on the ledge, he looks down at the alley below. His oily, dark target moves quickly around the dumpster, trying to avoid detection. _Fat chance, buddy._ _You're_ _mine now._  He removes the dart and blowgun from the case with a smile. The world narrows down to this: just a man, the wind, and a clear line of sight. He exhales sharply. Bull's-eye.

"Do I even want to know why you're shooting rats with a blowgun?"

"Probably not, Tash."

She approaches noiselessly, spins a dart between her fingers, and sniffs. "Doesn't smell like poison… Is that a microchip on the end?"

"Yup, Tony is interested in tracking the migration patterns of local vermin. He was making noises about using the rats as a detection system or something. God knows what he put in those chips… He and Bruce started to explain it, but then it devolved into SCIENCE! and I kinda zoned out. This is fun. You should try it."

"Just what we need – an army of 'Iron Rats' protecting Avenger Tower." She nearly cracks a smile.

Clint reloads the dart gun and scans the alley for his next target. "How did project 'Last Dance' go?", deliberately keeping his tone neutral. In his head, he calls it project 'Let Cap take your partner dancing one time so he'll get it out of his stupid super-system and stop making idiotic moony eyes at her.'

"Not good."

Clint smiles, telling himself it's just because he spotted another rat. A quick exhalation, and it's tagged. "How bruised are your toes?"

"Mission aborted. Bad intel. Goals and parameters were based on incorrect assumptions." She grimaces. "I don't want to talk about it."

* * *

**Earlier:**

"No."

Natasha frowns, looking down at the dress. White full skirt to mid-calf, off the shoulder fitted bodice, patterned with bright red cherries. Her hair pin-curled to perfection. She's a classic pinup girl. "What's the problem? I can go slightly more or less fancy-"

"I don't think you understood my intention, Natasha. This…" He gestures to the entire ensemble. "This is you doing your best to look like Peggy and give me a lost dance."

"Yes." She looks at him as though he's dim. "You asked me to go dancing with you, and I wanted to give you as close to the dance you missed as possible." Her voice suddenly sharpens into a perfect British accent. "I can even make you close your eyes and think it's her, if you'd like."

Steve winces and puts his face in his hands. "That's what you thought I wanted!? Aaarg!" His shoulders slump. "You thought I wanted you to pretend you're someone else?"

Natasha sighs in frustration. This is not going as she had hoped. She can be anyone for him. Why won't he enjoy it like every other…. mark… Damn, sometimes he's really much sharper than Tony gives him credit for.

"I don't want you to be someone else." He grabs her shoulders. "I don't want you to give me something I've lost. I want to try something NEW… With YOU." His cheeks flush with a combination of anger, arousal and embarrassment and his fingers tremble slightly. "I want YOU." He leans down and presses his mouth to hers, gently, sweetly, entreating her to understand…

She freezes for a moment. The crush of his lips against hers, strong hands gently pulling her against him; it's incredibly… real… honest… imploring… She has never had someone lay themselves so bare to her-to the Black Widow, sure, but not to HER. It's different, it's… nice. Experimentally, she lets her hands roam up his arms to encircle his neck. He groans in pleasure at her response and she parts her lips, allowing the kiss to deepen.

She automatically reaches into her library of personas, as she always does during intimate situations. Who is she for this encounter? Who would fit with him the best…? Wait, he doesn't want her to be someone else… But…she NEEDS a character. She can't do this as herself. Panic. Sheer and utter panic. She freezes.

It's a shocking realization. She literally cannot do something as simple as kissing a man without a cover. Natasha Romanov has never seduced a man when it wasn't for a mission. The realization is horrifying. It's not that she doesn't want to keep kissing Steve Rogers; it's that she can't do it without putting someone else on. She can't do this. She just CAN'T.

Steve pulls back at her sudden stillness, eyes shining with adoration and concern. He's afraid he's pushed too fast. Nervous he's done something wrong.

"It's okay, Steve." She swallows hard. "Please, put me down."

He complies immediately.

Her brow furrows, Natasha Romanov does not take failure well. And she has definitely failed here. She doesn't like that she is unable to do something, especially something she  _wants_ to do. She should be better, she should be less broken…

She is suddenly angry. Angry with herself, angry with Steve, angry with a 90-year old stranger on the other side of the planet. Too many emotions. She hates emotions. Emotions are weakness, weaknesses are flaws. She must not be flawed, she must be perfect. She needs more control.

She takes a step back, literally and figuratively. "I'm sorry, Cap. This was a mistake."

"I can be anyone for you… Peggy, a movie star, a saint, a sinner; but not me." She strips off the gloves and removes her heels. "We can shoot together, spar, or plan the next mission." She takes down the pin curls and she lets her hair fall naturally. "That's who I am, Steve. I AM the job. That's ALL I am." She looks up at him sadly. "I'm sorry." She hates that she cant' give him what he wants. She walks out the door. "We're still team mates and friends, Steve. But you need to find another girl."

* * *

"So what happened?"

"Did you catch the part where I said I'd rather not talk about it?"

He gives her his best 'sure, I'm infuriating, but you like me anyway' grin.

"Rest assured, Steve now knows he will need to find another dance partner." She sees a rat on a ledge a few yards away and flicks the dart in her hand, tagging it on the hindquarters.

A tightness that he didn't even realize was there suddenly loosens in his chest. "Nice shot."

They sit together for several minutes, silent, watching Clint continue sniping until the darts are gone.

She clears her throat as he packs the dart gun away. "I need a favor."

"Who do you need taken out? Or did you finally kill Tony for trying to grab your ass again? You need me to help you dispose of the body? I wish you'd waited until he finished the new arrows he's been working on..."

He feels her hesitation and turns, suddenly serious. She rarely hesitates to ask anything of him. It must be big. He mentally calculates the nearest body drop points and stashes of untraceable weapons. It may be a long night.

She starts to turn away. "You know what? I'm thinking about it…and never mind, it's fine."

He grabs her arm as she tries to brush past him to the door. The grip is gentle, but iron. "Tasha." He lifts her chin to make her look in his eyes. "Tell me what you need."

She doesn't answer him.

"How can I help?"

"Let it go." The tone tells him firmly to drop it.

He growls in frustration. "Dammit, Tasha. Talk to me. I'm your partner. Don't be an idiot and try to do this on your own."

Natasha chuckles bitterly. "Well, for starters, this one's a little hard to take on alone."

"Ask me."

"No."

"ASK!"

Exasperated, she nearly screams at him, "I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU."

The next dart case falls from his hand, the sound of it hitting the rooftop suddenly deafening in the silence.

He finally manages to pull pull his jaw shut with an audible click and swallows. "Sorry? I must have misheard that."

She sighs in frustration. "I realized something today… I've never just been… me… during sex."

He knows this, of course, but hearing it makes him scowl. Her body was a weapon of the state for so long… she's never sought out male company when it wasn't part of an act needed for a mission. He's always respected that choice and never questioned it or pushed her boundaries. What troubles him is WHY she wants this. "Why? Why now?"

She clenches her teeth. She was kind of hoping he'd just sling her over his shoulder and take her on the nearest flat surface... The thought of him doing exactly that are causing all sorts of reactions she'd rather not address right now, especially when he looks like he's in shell shock. Tamping down the disappointment, she tries to explain. "I feel like some part of me is missing. It didn't matter to me for a long time. We were… We ARE perfect together. But…" She plows ahead, ignoring his wince at the words. "We're part of a bigger team now. We both need to work on being just a little more human, and today I realized that I might… someday… want to be intimate with someone because  _I_  want to be."

She takes his hands in hers and looks up at him, pleading for understanding. "Don't you ever wonder if there might be something else besides just…the next mission, the next mark, the next hit?"

No, he does not. He has all he needs. He has his bow, his partner, and a good line of sight. All bases covered. They are all each other needs, until today. Until she went to Steve Rogers for a dance and came back wishing she were able to have sex for fun.

He feels like he's been punched in the gut. Their perfect partnership… it's crumbling before his eyes. She wants to be more human… with him, but not FOR him.

Still, he says nothing. His silence a tangible weight until it's crushing her.

"Never mind," she shakes her head, desperate to break the stalemate. "I shouldn't have…"

"Do you know what you're asking me?" The words are torn from his throat, harsh and angry. Did she really just expect him to be the warm up act for Steve  _fucking_  Rogers? "You want me to be your 'therapy fuck'?"

The coldness of his voice surprises her. She should have known he'd be like this. She's acting outside their normal parameters. He hates it when she does that. She looks down at the ground. "I'm asking my friend for help." The words are barely above a whisper, but they cut him like a blade.

How can she ask him to do this? How can she possibly ask him to be her gateway to another man? Doesn't she realize he–No, of course she doesn't. He's stone, she's ice, and that's the way they are. Then Captain fucking Sunshine appeared. She want's to be more, for CAP! That's what angers him more than anything. Steve Rogers made her want to be someone who could be in a relationship.

His eyes are begging, pleading with her. "Tasha, are you sure you want to do this?"

Natasha sighs, trying to make it not sound as monumental as it had seemed when she had blurted it out originally. "It's not that big of a deal, birdbrain…" She attempts to back out gracefully. "I can wait, deal with it later if change your mind…or not at all, if you want to. We can redact this entire conversation. It never happened."

It's a staggering realization for him.

Natasha will give up exploring her own sensuality entirely if he says no. He somehow expected her to use the 'I'll just find someone else' card, but no. She's going to remain celibate and let their partnership continue just the way it was before if he wants it that way.

And suddenly it's not enough for him anymore either. He is going to willingly, happily screw up their flawless, seamless, platonic relationship because  _he_  wants more. He wants all of her… And if that means he has to convince her she doesn't need Captain  _fucking_ America to feel human, well, he's willing to spend the next few years in bed with her making sure that happens.

He moves forward to take her in his arms and find the nearest flat surface. Show her how much he wants her and then–

And then Steve  _fucking_  Rogers opens the rooftop door and Clint has an exceptionally vivid vision of himself throwing his team leader off the building.

"Sorry to interrupt." He doesn't look terribly sorry. "Team briefing, downstairs, now. Fury's got something for us." Clint balls his hands at his sides. Perfect timing.

Natasha smiles and gives a small shrug, ignoring the chaotic swirl of emotions between the three of them. "Okay, Cap. Sounds good." She brushes past Clint and whispers an absolution. "I apologize for asking, Clint. Conversation erased." Her cheeks color with shame for a moment. Then she allows the Widow to take over; pure professional. Emotions in check, she squares her shoulders and follows the captain.

Clint lowers his head and growls as he follows them. It takes an act of will not to slam his fist into the door. Something, anything to relieve the frustration building inside his chest . Of all the massive fuckups, this has got to be a personal best. She thinks he doesn't want her. She couldn't be more wrong.

Fortunately, he's a sniper, a patient man. He will make it his singular goal to get Natasha Romanov into his bed and not let her out until he's fucked every memory of Steve Rogers from her brain.

Finis.

For now. Yes, I'm evil… But I love and respond to all reviews ;)

Thanks a million to DJ Liopleurodon and OddDoll for their awesome feedback and beta work.


	2. The Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA – that one time when Clint needed to convince Natasha to let him do her a favor.

**The Answer**

* * *

_AKA – that one time when Clint needed to convince Natasha to let him do her a favor._

* * *

They move towards the conference table; a hologram of Directory Fury waits, arms crossed, silently glowering as the agents assemble.

Hawkeye brushes past Natasha as he takes a seat next to her. She quells a shiver as he growls a single word, softly, determinedly in her ear. "Yes."

She will not meet his eyes, she swallows back a moan at the feel of his breath on her neck. She leans away imperceptibly. 'No,' she mouths silently as the Director begins to speak.

His scowl deepens. Everyone else to assumes it's a reaction to the reports of cyborgs attacking the Bronx.

* * *

They move out and suit up. She is heading for the weapons locker, when she sees him stride purposefully toward her, holding her widow's bites. If anyone else were touching her weapons, they'd be on the floor and in agony, but this is one of the many things they only trust each other with.

As he places the heavy bracelets in her hands, he skims a calloused thumb across her wrist to the palm. She inhales sharply at the caress. A pleased half growl half purr emerges from his throat as he wraps the deadly cuff around her wrist, the click of metal seems to be as aloud a gunshot in the otherwise empty room. The air around them thickens with tension, crackling with a new heat. She looks up at him, his dark blue-grey eyes are blown black with desire, her knees nearly buckle.

He can sense her resolve weakening as he twines the fingers of her other hand with his. They watch their entwined fingers as he fastens the second cuff. Emboldened, he turns her hand and raises the upturned palm to his lips, breathing the one word that suddenly means everything: "Yes."

She swallows, barely managing breathy whisper. "No." She turns and walks quickly down the hall. His gaze on her retreating form is absolutely predatory.

* * *

The blast throws the Hulk through a lingerie warehouse in the garment district. He lands on the other side, shaking his head he barrels back into the fray.

Hawkeye draws back and releases. The arrow lops off a single strand of red hair then buries itself into the brain of the cyborg commander pointing a gun at the Black Widow's heart.

The leaderless cyborgs continue to fight, disorganized and Hulk has fun using a larger one as a baseball bat as he takes out the others. The fact that he's now covered in ducky-print lingerie does not seem to slow him down.

She runs toward her partner, sliding across a car and settling at his side. Back-to-back, they work on eliminating the rest of the pathetic remnants of the once proud evil cyborg army.

"Yes." It's a victory cry, but also a demand only she understands.

She can't help but laugh. Only he can make her laugh at a time like this. "Not now, bird brain!"

His smile widens. It's progress… that wasn't a 'no'.

* * *

After:

It's a post mission ritual now. The five of them arrive, dusty, tattered, still in uniform to whatever nearest restaurant owner will have them. And, to date, no one has turned them away.

This time, it's 'The Rusty Nail'–perhaps the last true dive bar in New York–with country music on the jukebox and peanut shells on the floor.

Tony tries to beat a hasty retreat. The owner puts a scotch in front of him and declares Iron Man to be the most-badass of the superhero team. Tony changes his mind about the establishment immediately.

They eat greasy burgers and beers, while listening to the wait staff complain about 'Damn foreigner robots.' As if an army of American-made evil robots would somehow have had the decency not to break the windows of a country western bar. Bruce and Natasha have to talk Cap down when he starts to give the entire bar a speech about the evils of prejudice. Thor asks Clint to explain this term: 'jingoism'.

Cap glowers soberly into his beer; unhappy he wasn't able to educate the bar patrons to be better citizens of the word _._ More beer is ordered, and a bottle of vodka appears as well. Clint suspects this is from the bartender who's favorite Avenger is obviously  _not_  Iron Man. Natasha raises a glass to the old cowboy behind the bar, winks at him and downs the shot smoothly. It's the new highlight of an old man's life.

A painfully twangy country tune comes on and Tony declares he need shots immediately if he's going to survive such an auditory assault. Clint smiles, lowers his beer and tugs on Natasha's hand. He guides her onto the small dance floor. He knows she follow him onto the dance floor; she'd follow him to hell.

She'll do anything for him. He'll do anything for her. Now they both want to do one thing for each other.

Steve frowns. Tony smirks. Bruce smiles. Thor demands more ale.

The assassins glide smoothly amongst the glass, cigarette butts, and sawdust; deliberately ignoring everyone else. He brushes a curl behind her ear as she leans against his chest. She hears her his heartbeat; solid, rhythmic and real. It's the best soundtrack she knows.

He twirls her as the song comes to an end, dipping her and gazing down in silent entreaty. She stares back, lips parted and struggles to find the words that will prevent them from crossing this line they've both created for so many reasons, so many years ago. There are none. They both want this.

His voice is low, afraid the break the spell, yet rough with need. "Yes?"

She licks her lips and sees the pulse in his neck quicken in response. "Yes."

He lifts her to her feet and they walk back to the table in silence. It is decided.

She can't help but smile when he growls impatiently in her ear as they sit. "When?"

Finis.

Thanks again to DJ Liopleurodon and OddDoll the uber-betas. Everything you like, blame them for. The suck is all me for either ignoring them, or adding some random line with a typo after they already beta'ed the chapter.

I love torturing my favorite characters, but don't worry dear readers, there will be smut, feels, angst, smut and more feels to come soon.

Feedback is adored and keeps my fingers tapping - I also respond to everyone, flames or no, cause I'm a feedback whore like that :)

Roar


	3. Mission Paramaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA - That one time when Natasha arrived over-prepared.

Quick Authors Note - so sorry for the delay in updating, was evacuated due to wildfires in CO and just now getting back on track, I promise more fic and, less fire evacuations in the future. Thanks for being patient with me :) Now on to our story.

**Mission Paramaters**

* * *

_AKA - That one time when Natasha arrived over-prepared._

* * *

Is this a date? No, this is just sex. What do you wear for just sex? No, what do you wear for therapy sex? It sounds like something you need terry cloth or yoga pants for… Clint frowns, he doesn't own yoga pants. But he does appreciate them, especially on Natasha.

Watching Natasha in yoga pants is something of an unofficially recognized pastime amongst the field agents. She never complained to the higher-ups, but someone else must have… Fury's solution was elegant. The next day, the director had a slingshot delivered to Clint's door. Now, agents are kept on their toes. Now, when someone is walking down the hall with a huge welt on their forehead, agents just smile; there's a price you pay for ogling Hawkeye's partner.

He glares at the closet accusingly, as if it's to blame for the fact that he's worrying about clothing like a fifteen-year-old girl.

There's a knock at the door. Crap, she's early. He looks down at his black t-shirt and draw-string pants; guess this is what you wear for it's-just-therapy-sex.

He opens the door and he notices she's similarly dressed. Grey t-shirt and loose black pants. Good. He accidentally dressed appropriately for therapy sex.

He gestures for her to come inside and she gracefully jumps onto the couch, throwing a small black gym bag to the floor. It hits the ground with a suspiciously loud thump. He tries not to wonder about what might be in there.

She raises an elegantly sculpted eyebrow, daring him to comment.

"So…" Has he ever felt this nervous prior to sex? Not since he was sixteen, that's for sure.

She smiles. "Okay, Barton. Let's do some intel."

He laughs and feels some of the tension ebb. "Seriously, Tash? You want to approach how to have non-mission sex as a mission?"

"It's how I work. Deal with it. So let's start with basic info." The smile turns into a slight leer. "When was the last time you had sex?"

Great. First question, and he's already in trouble. He looks at the carpet suddenly fascinated by the beige surface. "Um… December 14th."

A flash of something that might be hurt crosses her features. He knows why. He makes a point of spending every December 15th with her, declaring it their 'anniversary'. That he would have spent the previous night with another woman seems to have hit a nerve. He decides not to fix the mistaken assumption. Better a few hurt feelings than admitting...

A calculating look crosses her features. "Wait a minute…"

Damn.

"We were in Greenland freezing our asses off in a remote base last December 14th, so unless you bedded eighty-year-old Dr. Stan Meedely…"

Oh ugh, worst mental image of all time.

"Or wandered outside and found a friendly Yeti…"

Okay, second worst mental image of all time.

"There's no way you could have... Hold on… December of what year?"

Shit.

Busted.

This is where he may have to face the fact that he hasn't had sex since he brought her into SHIELD, three years ago. He hadn't felt the need hook up with the trainees and rookies who previously warmed his bed, another reason most of SHIELD assumed they'd been fucking since day one. Nat filled all of the emotional cracks and crevices of his scarred psyche. As for the physical... She obviously didn't want to be pursued, and he's got his right hand and the internet.

"What about you? When was the last time you had sex."

She rolls her eyes at the obvious ploy to avoid the question, but doesn't shy from answering it. "December 1st, honeypot mission to get intel from Turkey's Director of International Finance, a recluse who never left his boat. I came aboard as his daughter's new best friend from college."

"You slept with him?"

"Yes, but that wasn't the last time I had sex."

He raises an eyebrow.

"I was in his office, the next day, when she showed up. I didn't want her wondering what I was doing there, or why his computer was on, so I, um, distracted her."

His brain short circuits for a moment. Stop it Barton. Therapy guys do NOT get hard listening to their partners talk about missions.

"It was probably as close to voluntarily having sex as I ever got. I could have easily gotten her out of the room, or just tranq'ed her and escaped with the files… But she was such a conflicted, confused young woman… She was obviously terrified of her sexual attraction to women in general, and her attraction to her new best friend, specifically… She was afraid that I'd think she was sick. So I put on someone who could introduce her to her sexuality, and let her know it wasn't wrong to feel what she was feeling and how to enjoy it. Her father was a controlling, stuck-up bigot, so I also felt it karmically appropriate to seduce his daughter on his prized pre-Ottoman war desk. It also allowed me to stay through the week without blowing my cover."

Barton tries to keep his breathing even. Best mental image ever. Aw crap, stop it. That's not being 'therapy guy'. Stop imagining your partner kissing a Greek co-ed. Stop. Stop. Stop. He tries to find something to grab in the information that 'therapy guy' would care about. "So, it was still for the mission, and you still put on another persona, correct?"

She nods.

"Here's what I'm thinking." He takes a bottle of water from the fridge, trying to focus on being 'therapy guy'. "Mission Goals: get Agents Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov out of the celibate, sexually stunted mental place they are right now."

She bites back a laugh. "Agreed."

"I haven't had sex in a while."

Her eyebrow quirks up, silently mocking him for not admitting how long. He ignores it and plows ahead.

"And even when I did before, it was just scratching an itch, no emotions, just sex." He hopes he can get her to give him more, open up more if she's doing it to help his issues, not just her own. "Mission goal for Agent Barton: make sex about more than just the act."

"Agreed." She hops onto the counter and grabs a coffee mug, filling it with the coffee she knows he brewed just for her. "Mission goal for Agent Romanov: have sex as self, no artifice, no putting on another persona, no save-the-world stuff on the line."

"Agreed."

They clink drinks in agreement.

"So." Natasha takes a long pull from the steaming hot mug. "I've got oils, straps, handcuffs, lube, whips, liquid latex, vibrators, electro–"

She looks almost offended at his sudden outburst of laughter, but he can't help it.

"Well, some of us came prepared, Barton. I'll bet you didn't even think to grab a condom."

"I'll have you know I'm well stocked, but let's back up a sec." Suddenly being therapy guy isn't something he has to work at. He brushes a lock of hair behind her ear as she stares at the ground. "I know you've done all of these things, but which of them do you LIKE doing?"

She looks up at him, brows furrowed, confused. "They all provide very different types of pleasure…"

He sighs. "I'm not talking about pleasure. I'm talking about preference. Do you even know what you might WANT to do?"

She can't meet his eyes, frantically looking around. He can see her start to panic.

"Hey, it's okay." He takes her hand and they both focus on that connection. "Let's start at the VERY beginning. We can work our way up to whips and latex later. For right now, let's just work on the basics."

She nods, and he feels the despair radiating off his partner. She feels like she's failing at this before it's even begun.

He cups her cheek. Giving into a selfish impulse, he caresses the silk of her hair with his other hand as he lifts her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Let's just start at the beginning. A kiss."

He tries to keep his breathing measured as he lowers his lips to hers.

A soft, chaste touch of the lips, barest brush of flesh. He can do this, he can be therapy guy. He can keep it slow and –

And she parts her lips slightly, gasping in pleasure, she presses her half open lips to his again, entreating for more.

Therapy guy goes out the window.

He deepens the kiss without thinking, sliding his tongue across her bottom lip before crushing her against him. They crash together, tongues dueling for dominance, rough demanding kisses, neither of them wanting to let up long enough to take the next breath. Her hands claw desperately at his shoulders, pulling him closer, practically climbing him. He grabs her ass and helps, lifting her and slamming her against him. He begins to see spots, though he's not sure if it's from lack of breathing or her breasts crushed against his chest… He distantly wonders if there could be a better death than asphyxiation from kissing Natasha Romanov. If so, he certainly can't think of it right now.

Eventually, oxygen depravation forces them apart and he pulls back slightly. "Are you all right?"

He can see the fluttering pulse in her neck, matching the hammering in his own chest. She's breathing heavily. "Yes."

"Still you?"

She looks almost puzzled as she works to gather her thoughts. "Yes… I didn't even think about it. Perhaps it's because I've never had to put on someone else for you even in the earliest days… Because you never tried to… It's easier for me."

_She_ ' _s okay doing this because she thinks you_ ' _re safe._ He tries to ignore the bitterness of the thoughts.  _Focus on the positive_ ' _therapy guy_ ' _. She_ ' _s never been anyone else for you. That_ ' _s something no one else on this stupid planet can say about Natasha Romanov._

Her eyes narrow as if she senses his turmoil. "What about you? Did you feel any emotional withdrawal?"

How could she possibly ask him that? Did she not feel him putting everything he had into that kiss? Pushing down the disappointment, he strengthens his resolve. He'll get through to her, it'll just take some more 'convincing'. He will categorize every sigh, gasp, and moan. Then spend the next few years making her gasp and scream his name until there's no space in her brain for a single thought of Captain fucking America.

He forces a smirk and puts a leer in his voice. "I think I could try again and see if we can get more of a connection."

A brief flicker of emotion passes across her face, but before he can identify it she's pulling him to her again.

…

The end - no not really, but for a little while.

Authors notes:

Sorry dear readers, I REALLY wanted to put these two in bed together, but they just wanted to talk, talk, talk, so we'll have to wait till the next chapter for some hard core action. Poor kids, they just have so many feels I need to stomp on.

As always, a thousand kudos to DJ Liopleurodon for inspiration and countless chats bouncing ideas and helping me find the right tone... and OddDoll for the most meticulous grammar beta the world has ever known, they (and everyone else who writes reviews/kudos etc,) keep me inspired to write more and more for this pairing. Guests, I couldn't pm you back, but thank you SO much for taking the time to leave feedback.


	4. The Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one time Clint and Natasha did exactly what they wanted to... with exactly the person they wanted to be doing it with... AKA (this is the smut chapter folks!)

A favor between friends part 4

 

Aka: That one time when Clint and Natasha did exactly what they wanted to, with the person they wanted to do it with.

 

________________

 

Soft, chase kisses. Gentle brush of skin against skin.

 

That’s what she thought it would be.

 

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

It’s not gentle, it’s not soft, and it sure as fuck isn’t chaste.

 

She shouldn’t be surprised; Clint Barton kisses like he kills, with the precision of a sniper and the intensity of a freight train.

 

Lips crash together, a duel of need and desperation. Hands tangle though hair, greedily pulling and pushing, anything to get more.

 

It’s rough, demanding, and dirty. In a word, perfect.

 

Her brain is short-circuiting as he presses hard, desperate, open-mouthed kisses along her neck. Biting the soft flesh at the base of her neck—the sound she makes is barely human, but he seems to like it, redoubling the effort—strong fingers dig into her shoulders, nearly bruising in their strength.

 

She needs more, she needs skin. Hands suddenly made clumsy with need fumble for the hem of his shirt. It takes an act of will not to whimper at the sight before her. Clint Barton’s arms and shoulders have always been something of a distraction she’s had to work to ignore. She is finally allowed to indulge in a smirk that’s been three years in the making. The magnificence of his upper body would be something from sculpture, except for the dozens of small scars crossing almost every inch, each as beautiful to her as the rest, because they are HIM. She yearns to reach out, explore every one, to be treasured, touched, tasted. She can’t help herself. 

 

Slamming him against the refrigerator, she holds him there with a stare. Beginning with his shoulders, she kisses, licks and nips her way down, indulging in a quick lick between the muscles of his abs. The shuddering sound he makes is half growl, half moan.

 

As she reaches for his belt buckle, and the very impressive erection straining at the material below, she’s quickly flipped to find their positions reversed. Strong hands grip hers and pin them above her head against the cold metal. 

 

“Stay.”

 

He leans into her, pinning her with his weight, hands ghost along her neck, across her shoulders until they meet the material of her t-shirt. His eyes narrow with displeasure at the offending garment and with a quick pull, it’s suddenly torn in half.

 

“Hey, I liked that shirt.”

 

He smiles at the tattered remnants of black cotton. “I’ll buy you a new one.” Her breath hitches as he growls into her ear. “I’ll buy you ten new ones. I’ll buy you all of Manhattan, anything, everything. But you’re not getting that shirt back… as a matter of fact, I think I'm going to have it framed.” 

 

His is breath is hot on the back of her neck. “MINE.”

 

She has laid waste to small armies of mercenaries while remaining cool and collected.

 

She has stolen top-secret documents from every major superpower without breaking a sweat.

 

She has toppled regimes without blinking.

 

So why is Clint Barton's breath against the back of her neck, as he growls demands, making her tremble like a child.

 

His lips trace every inch of exposed skin, cataloging every breath, every gasp, every moan. 

 

She’s never felt so naked, so exposed, in any state of undress before. Without her mental and emotional shields, the rawness is overpowering.

 

Is this how it is for everyone when they’re not wearing a mask? Is this the sex everyone else has been having? If so, for the first time Natasha Romanov sees what all the fuss is about.

 

Animal, tender, demanding and exquisite. Eyes dilated, lips swollen, she is every debauched fantasy, and she is his.

 

He watches the rapid rise and fall of her chest… He did that. Reaching a hand up to her cheek and she presses against it, his thumb traces lightly across her lush lips, shuddering as she parts them and nips at the tip of his thumb. Her hot breath and slick tongue envelop his calloused fingers and he nearly comes form the sensory overload.

 

He slides his hand from her cheek, down her neck. He can feel the flushed warmth, the hitch in breath as he gently encircles her slender pale neck. He feels the flutter of her pulse against his hands, watches her eyes blown black by desire as she stares into his eyes. No, not fear, quite the opposite. Oh fuck.

 

“Natasha.” A harsh raw whisper. ‘Please,’ he begs silently. ‘Tell me this is what I think it is… That you trust me this much… That putting yourself in my hands this way turns you on.’

 

She sees the momentary hesitation and places her deceptively delicate hand around the one holding her throat.

 

“Yes.” Her harsh whisper is a statement, a question, a plea.

 

He loses it. Everything, every thought, every memory, couldn’t come up with his own name if the world depended on it. Roughly removing any remaining clothing one-handed, keeping her throat with the other. She wraps her legs around him and they’re poised, almost together, lost in a moment, lost in each other… Nails dig into his shoulders, urging him on. His vision goes white as he pushes into her, holding her against the wall with his weight against her, his lips against hers, his hand encircling her neck, his cock pinning her to the wall, her legs around her waist… Slow is not an option for either of them. It’s harsh, brutal, and sacred as he fucks her against the cold stainless steel. His fingers momentarily tighten around her throat, and suddenly he feels her clench around him. He’s lost, falling after her, nearly losing consciousness as they come together.

 

Magnificent. He knew it would be. He’s seen her with others of course, but never... Never like this, never like this – for him.

 

He doesn’t notice the tears until he feels the wet tracks against his neck, hitting his shoulders as they hold each other against the wall.

 

He looks up at her, horror cutting through the arousal.

 

“No, no… This isn’t… I’ve never… It’s a good thing, I promise.” She’s obviously as shattered from her orgasm as he is, trying to reassure him ineloquently as she touches her fingers to her cheeks, looking at the salt drops in wonder.

 

Understanding blooms, awe erasing the worry. Rough fingers twine with hers, pulling her fingers to him. He reverently takes each finger, licking the tears from them.

 

“These, these are for me.” It’s not a question, but she can’t help nodding in agreement. A possessive growl: “Only for me.”

 

She can only answer with the truth. “Only you.”

 

He schools a dangerously possessive smirk, instead carrying her over to the couch, laying them both out, caressing the fiery strands as they coast down from the post-orgasm high. Will she stay, let herself fall asleep here with him? Does she understand what this meant to him? Will she understand what he’ll do to keep her, now that he’s had all of her? Cities will fall, regimes will crumble, apocalypses can come and go, but she’ll be his. 

 

He watches her; it’s always been his favorite pastime. Always.

 

The arch of her foot, the line of her bare back, the curve of her ass, this is art to him.

 

She rolls off the couch and stands, blowing a strand of tousled hair away from her face. It’s hopeless, telltale sex hair.

 

“Going somewhere?”

 

Now this is the hard part, the part where if she says ‘Thanks for the sex, now I I’m off to go see Steve,’ he’ll have to explain to Colson and Fury why he murdered America’s national hero and fucked Natasha Romanov on his grave.

 

That’s going to be a difficult conversation. It will involve LOTS of paperwork. Colson’s gonna be pissed.

 

She saunters over to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water and throws it at him. “I’m thirsty, moron.” Launching herself over the couch, she settles on his lap and takes the water from him, greedily gulping. He watches the excess drops trickle down her neck, between her breasts.

 

Damn.

 

Well, she can’t NOT have felt that, being perched on his lap.

 

She smiles and whispers the words he desperately needs to hear. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” 

 

Thank god.

 

The sweet smile turns wicked. “Want to break out the duffle bag now?”

 

She gives an indignant squeak as he hoists her over his shoulder with one hand and picks up the duffle bag with the other, striding towards the bedroom.

 

Fuck Steve fucking Rogers and his milquetoast, vanilla, old fashioned desire to court his partner. He’s not getting anywhere near this woman. Natasha Romanov is his.

 

End (for now, I'm not giving them a happily ever just yet, bwahahahah)

 

Thanks to OddDoll and DJ Liopleurodon for amazing betas (the queen of grammar and the best sounding board ever, respectively).

 

Authors note - Hope the breath-play didn't squeak out too many folks out there... 

Sorry for the delay in updating, as anyone in Colorado knows, we've had floods, fires and everyone is investing in locust-off just in case. But don't fear, the next few chapters are written, and should be posted in the next few days, my Christmas present for the folks silly enough to enjoy my work, and a huge lump of coal for all my haters out there :*


	5. Lunchtime Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our favorite marksmen proves to be a surprising good sandwich chef, and cunning matchmaker.

 

 

A Favor Between Friends:  Part 5

 

AKA – That one time when Clint realized Darcy had a crush and plotted to exploit it for his own nefarious purposes.

 

 

Darcy looks through the community refrigerator in frustration…  She knows it was Thor; he's the only one idiot enough take her last pudding cup without so much as a by your leave.   Grrrr.   He is a dead man…er…god. 

 

She goes to the pantry, hunting for anything else that might sate her sugar craving while trying to remember where she left her taser.  Digging through the bottom shelf she locates a bottle of maraschino cherries. VICTORY!

 

She turns, doing a victory booty shake dance, and nearly plows into Clint Barton as he's retrieving a beer.

 

She manages to swallow a yelp of fear, but barely.  No problem, she can be chill. She's totally fine. She's cool as a cucumber.  It’s just like facing a Doberman: be calm, don’t let them smell your fear.

 

His sharp laugh tells her she's not fooling anyone.

 

For the most part, Darcy loves living at the tower. Taking care of Jane is an awesome job, and living with a bunch of super-humans is pretty cool.  But…  Well.  The assassins scare the crap out of her.

 

The rest of the team she's built a rapport with:

 

Bruce is lovely and gentle, and he's wonderful at helping her remind Jane that she needs things like food and water when they're geeking out over physics for eight hours without pause.

 

Pepper is her new role model in life, minus the boyfriend, who's an insane genius with an ego the size of New York City. But, though she’ll never admit it, she likes Tony too.  Sure, he keeps making her playlists that suck her will to live but, hey, his terribly old-man taste in music is WAY outdone by his allowing her team to live like rock stars rent-free at the tower.

 

Cap is…  She flushes at the thought and hates herself a little for the reaction.  She's so NOT that girl.  Or rather she doesn’t WANT to be that girl, but for some reason the thought of Cap, his gentle smile, the blushes he can't' seem to get under control, they make her melt.  He's by far the sweetest man she's ever met, even if they haven't exchanged more than a dozen sentences.  His only flaw is the irritating habit of following Natasha Romanov with his eyes whenever she's around, practically tripping over himself whenever they're in the same room together.

 

She’s come to enjoy the company of most everyone at the tower, including JARVIS. But the two assassins…  She suppresses a shudder.

Sure the rest of the team could squash her like a bug… but you know they'd feel _reeeealy_ bad about it afterwards.   The assassins — if Nick Fury gave a termination order on Darcy Lewis for selling national secrets, drug trafficking, or just stealing his eyepatch and selling it on eBay, she’d be dead, end of story.  They'd end her without hesitation or remorse. ‘Subject terminated, mission complete.  Let’s go get a drink, shoot at things, spar and be general bad-asses for the rest of the day.’

 

Lately however, the man standing in front of her has seemed just a LITTLE more human.  He's smiled a few times, laughed at a couple of jokes, and generally started relaxing around the team a smidge more.  Her sharp eyes have also noticed Natasha will let her partner touch her more in the last few days – an arm thrown across her shoulders during movie nights, a hand casually resting on the small of her back.  It's more than the redhead has ever allowed before, and it's not a huge leap to figure out why the archer is more laid back…   Laid, hehehe.

 

Barton smiles at her calculating look.  "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

 

She gives him a haughty sniff.  "As if. I totally knew you were there."

 

He allows the lie with an indulgent smile.  "Of course.  Sugar rush much?"  He nods at the pink jar in her hands.

 

She opens the jar and pops a cherry in her mouth.  The gush of sweetness makes her moan in appreciation.  "Soooo good.  Forgot to have breakfast. Blood sugar is way to low right now."

 

He frowns at her, and she has to make a distinct effort not to quake.  "Don't get run down.  Taking care of Jane is an important job, but it requires you to maintain your own health as well."

 

"Aww, concerned for little ole me?"  The mocking comment makes his eyebrow rise sardonically.

 

"Thor needs Jane, Jane needs you, you need food."  He pats her head like a small child.  "I need to keep Nat and me from dying on the next mission. If that means you get more than cherries for lunch, that's going to happen."  He begins pulling sandwich fixings from the fridge.  "Ham or roast beef?"

 

It's more words than she's ever heard from the normally stoic man, and she smiles at the effort he's obviously making to reach out.

 

"Ham, please."  She takes another cherry out and chews it slowly as she watches one of the deadliest men on earth construct a very decent looking sandwich.  Putting on a theatrical flair, he juggles the mustard spoon, kitchen knife and loaf of bread in one hand. He takes the pink bottle from her and replaces it with the sandwich.  Pulling a cherry from the newly confiscated bottle, he pops it into his mouth.  “Mmmm, stakeout food.  Good.  Nat hates them.”

 

Darcy bites into the sandwich with gusto, rolling her eyes in pleasure.  Who knew circus carnies made such awesome snackage?  When she's gotten enough in her stomach to allow rational thought, she can't help but want to know more about the pair.  "What’s she got against unnatural pink fruit?  Is it a Russian thing?"

 

He rolls the stem around in his mouth for a sec. She knows exactly what'll happen next.  He sticks out his tongue, one perfectly knotted cherry stem on the tip, then spits it into the garbage across the room. Three points.  She laughs, delighted. Perhaps they ARE human after all.  "I know that trick. Hand over another one, I've got that beat."

 

He takes one and looks at her challengingly.  Never one to back down from moronic challenges, she opens her mouth.  His aim is as flawless with fruit as it is with everything else, and she's soon hard at work on a cherry stem.

 

Clint fishes out another cherry, spinning the stem between his fingers absentmindedly.  "Tash uses that trick when targeting marks. It's foolproof on the poor fools."  Darcy doesn’t think he notices how his voice both softens as he talks about his partner and sharpens as he talks about her seductions.  He obviously doesn't enjoy watching her during the more intimate parts of her job.

 

Fortunately she has just the thing to distract him from the dark thoughts; with a hum of victory she sticks her tongue out and shows a perfect double knot. Very impressive if she does say so herself. It took three years of college to achieve such an important life skill.  "Beah thath!"

 

He laughs.  "You win, but watch out. Tash can get three knots on a stem."

 

She pouts.  "Great.  Just great. And I was going to try and impress Cap with that one…"  Obviously the archer spiked her sandwich with some drug that has turned off her brain-to-mouth filter.  She clasps her hands to her mouth in horror.

 

Clint suddenly goes very still.  If she didn't know better she'd think he was stone.  The look he gives her is hopeful, evil and devious at the same time.  "Soooo, someone has caught the eye of our young assistant." 

 

He takes her hands in his, eyes suddenly shining with calculation and glee.  It’s like watching a python smile. She resists the urge to pull back.  "I think it would be good for you to spend some time with our Captain. He’s doing nothing but moping around when he’s not training.”  The smile turns slightly feral and she swallows convulsively. She doesn’t THINK he’s trying to scare her. It’s just second nature for a predator.  “As a matter of fact, you should let me help devise a way to make Steve Rogers notice you a little more…."  He thinks for a moment as he looks down at her.  "Have you had any problems in the big city?"

 

She frowns.  "Last week there were a couple guys at the subway who followed me for a few blocks. They were trouble, but I managed to flag down a cop and ask him for directions. They disappeared."  She decides not to mention that the cop also gave her his phone number. He was a nice guy, but no Captain America.

 

Clint's smile widens.  She’s sure he means it to be a nice smile but has to make an effort not to panic at the plotting grin.  "Let's mention that during dinner tonight.  I'll bet you any amount of money Cap will suggest you get some training in basic self defense."  His tone is suddenly serious.  "You actually DO really need to learn more than just how to use a taser in order to defend yourself. You'll be a target because of your closeness to Jane and Thor…"  And if he has anything to say about it, soon Cap as well.

 

She licks her lips and can't help smiling.  "You think he'd volunteer to teach me to defend myself?"  The thought of being pressed up against Steve Rogers in a training arena makes her mouth water. 

 

Clint squeezes her hands almost hard enough to hurt, as though forcing his words to come to life.  "It's perfect.  Bruce doesn't know self defense, Tony's out because he's a letch, and I'll helpfully point out that Tash and I are WAY too busy with spy stuff to take on a pet project."

 

She can’t keep the smile at bay… because he’s right, it's PERFECT.  She's astute enough to understand why this is exactly in their mutual best interest.   A Steve Rogers who's interested in Darcy is one who's definitely better than one who's fixated on Hawkeye's partner.  She can't help clapping in delight.  Impulsively, she decided to conquer her fear of assassin #1 right now. She gets up and throws her arms around him in a grateful hug.  To her delight he not only doesn't back away, he spins her around, laughing in conspiratorial delight.   When they're done laughing, he sets her to the ground, then goes down on one knee, solemnly holding one of her hands, the jar of cherries in the other.

 

"You must swear, on your honor, and on this sacred jar of maraschino cherries, that you, Darcy Lewis, will employ every trick your — what I'm sure is impressive — arsenal to make Captain America into your personal love slave."  He hands her the jar of cherries.  "This is your mission, should you choose to accept it.  I promise I will be your wingman and have your back every step of the way."

 

She gives her best 'cat that got the cream' face.  "I promise you that man won't know what hit him."  She takes the jar and strides out the door, determined to find the perfect outfit for seducing America’s greatest hero for dinner tonight.  Something nice, but flexible enough that she won’t need to change in case of an 'after dinner' training session…

 

Darcy is so caught up in her own head as the door slams behind her, heading down the corridor, that she completely misses the flash of read hair from behind the glass of the janitor’s closet.

 

 

 

 

 

The spy presses her cheek against the cool metal of the door, in shock.  The silent scene replays over and over in her head, a horrible loop.  Her partner cooking, feeding cherries, holding hands, embracing and falling to his knees in front of the beautiful co-ed.

 

Natasha Romanov has been shot, been stabbed, and suffered torture at the hands of world-class masters.  None of these experiences have prepared her for the pain of watching another woman in her lover’s arms.  No, not her lover, her PARTNER’S arms.  _You knew from the start Romanov. You laid out the rules; this was a favor between friends, sex, nothing more.  You’ve helped him; he’s helped you. The fact that the sex has been mind blowing shouldn’t have given you expectations outside of mission parameters._

 

She is NOT heartbroken, she is NOT sobbing, and she definitely did NOT just punch the glass of the janitor's closet window.  Except that the tears, blood and shattered glass are making a liar of her.

 

She should have known he'd have someone he wanted to become more human for…  Hadn't she started this because Steve made her curious about the extent of her humanity…  But now, after a week in bed together, Clint Barton seems to want to take the next step with DARCY LEWIS. 

 

Biting back the urge to scream, to kill someone, to drink a bottle of vodka and demand Clint explain what an innocent twenty-two year old with a great rack might have that she doesn't…   But no.  She CAN understand, that’s part of the problem.  Darcy is sweet, kind, pretty and brave, but most of all she’s NORMAL.  If Barton wants 2.5 kids and a dog, he wants Darcy, NOT Natasha.

 

Wiping tears angrily from her cheeks, Natasha begins to strategize. She won't demand answers, hurting her partner by making him break their arrangement when she already knows why he needs someone else.  At the end of the day, loving someone means you put their wants and desires in front of your own… and damn if she doesn't love Clint Barton enough to let him go and be with someone who makes him happy, who he can have a future with.  God knows he's wouldn't get the white-picket-fence American dream with her.  If that’s what Clint Barton wants, she'll make sure he's able to go after it without guilt. 

 

A plan begins to form in her mind.  Clint will feel bad about 'breaking up' even if it's just the friends with benefits arrangement they have.  She'll have to make sure he doesn't feel bad about pursuing Darcy. She'll have to pretend it's what she wants too. 

 

She'll make him believe the lie that will break her heart. It's the only way he'll be satisfied and be able to enter into a new relationship guilt-free.  She'll make him believe she doesn't need him anymore.

 

She'll lie to him. She'll make him believe it. It's what she's best at.  Making people believe the lies they want to believe.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

"I had to break the window, it just had to be.

Better that I break the window, than him, or her, or me."

Finoa Apple

 

 

 

 

Authors Notes - Hehe, sorry everyone, I couldn't let them just be happy and write smut (stomps on all the feels).

 

Thanks as always to my uber betas OddDoll and DJliopleurodon and all the awesome folks who've commented, you guys make my day and keep my inspired to keep tapping away the next chapter.


	6. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Favor Between Friends – Part 6
> 
>  
> 
> AKA – That one time when Natasha and Clint read each other completely and horribly wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

He steps into her quarters with a spring in his step, they haven’t had a before-dinner quickie in a couple days, so her request to meet has had him half-hard since lunch. 

 

The moment opens the door, he senses something is off.  Her eyes are bright in a way he doesn't recognize.  Almost manic in their intensity.

 

She quickly shoves two official looking documents into his hands.  Bemused, he begins to read:

 

_Let it be known that Clint Barton is now a 100% fully functional human being capable of handling the full array of human emotions during sex, both before, during and after relations.  He is now officially graduated and my pursue normal human relationships and amazing sex with other people, this day of our lord…_

 

There’s a matching one underneath with her name as well.

 

Wait.  What?  This can't be what he thinks it is.

 

"Congratulations, Agent Barton.  Mission complete."  She smiles up at him, beaming with pride, belying the heartbreak so close to the surface.

 

‘ _Please_ ’ she begs with her eyes, ' _Tell me you don't want this, tell me you don't want to stop, don't let me go_.'

 

He sees the plea in her eyes and reads the message as ‘ _Please, I know you don't want to, but please, let me go.  Please._ '

 

He swallows back a howl of rage, the desire to fall to his knees and beg her to reconsider.  But no, he is stone, he can be rational about this.  “Is this…”  He gestures to the pages “Really what you want, Nat?”  _‘Please, please, please, reconsider, please understand what this will do to me.’_

 

Her smile falters; she had hoped she was wrong, that she’d misunderstood the scene in the kitchen, that he’d tell he doesn’t want anyone else, that he’d rip up the stupid pieces of paper.  But no, he just wants to make sure she’s okay with ending the arrangement.  He can’t even keep the yearning off his stupid, beautiful face.  He’ll probably go running to Darcy directly from here.  The thought lends enough anger to keep the tears from her voice.  She is ice, she can do this.  “Yes, Clint.  Mission complete.”

 

He clears his throat.  Trying to come up with a reason, any reason…  "Well, if you ever get lonely-"

 

She laughs; it's like broken glass.  "Don't worry about me Clint, I'll be fine."

 

What she means: I'll be fine on my own, go get your dream girl.

 

What he hears: I'm on my way to Cap's right after this.

 

' _Please_ ' She implores him mutely.   _'Please, if there's ever an opportunity to tell me I'm wrong this is it.  Please Clint, tell me there's no one else.'_

 

His jaw tightens with anger,  _you’re not enough for her, Barton.  Despite being in your bed for a week, she’s going to Captain_ fucking _America_.  He's suddenly seeing red.   _It was always leading up to this Barton, you knew that from the beginning.  You were just doing her a favor.  Now you’re condemned to watch the love of your life in the arms of your team leader for the rest of your existence._

 

He wants to hurt her; it’s a horrible soul destroying feeling.  Clint Barton never wanted to physically harm a woman in his entire life. He'll loathe his father till his dying day for what he did to his mother.  Now, part of him hates Natasha Romanov for making him understand how if feels to want to strike the woman he loves. 

 

He's got to get control.  He viciously forces any emotion from his face and lets out a bored sigh.  "I suppose this means I'll have to get out my little black book."

 

She mentally screams in despair.  It's as close to a confirmation of his desire to pursue someone else as she was likely to get.   _'Sure, the little black book with Darcy's name written all over it_.'

 

"I might have to get my dance card out as well."  She quips as she heads to the cupboard and takes out two SHIELD mugs.

 

 _'Sure,_ ' he thinks with a rage that nearly makes him tremble,  _'The one that has Steve fucking Rogers name all over it.'_

 

Taking a bottle of vodka from the fridge, she pours them both a stiff drink.  "I think this calls for a celebration drink."  -  _'I desperately need to get drunk, this is the worst day of my life.'_

 

He takes the glass with a smile.  "To my fellow 'fully capable of normal human relations' partner."   _'This is the worst day of my life, how fast can I get drunk?'_

 

They clink glasses, smiling brightly at each other; angry, jealous, dying inside.

 

The End – for now ☺

 

Don’t worry my lovely peeps, I won’t leave them like this for too long.  Feedback would be adored and responded to – flames keep my toes warm at night.

 

Thanks to my lovely betas and everyone who's left feedback, I heart you guys in my hearting place.


	7. Shakespeare, Russians and questionable decisions made by women in love...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA that one time when Captain America found the Black Widow in the library.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve notices Natasha Romanov out of the corner of his eye.  She’s curled up next to the fireplace in an overstuffed armchair in a dark, far corner of the library.  The spy is taking in the prose of War and Peace along with a glass of something amber and potent-looking beside her. 

 

Allowing himself the luxury of watching her, unseen, he notices the unshed tears shining in the firelight. She wipes them away before they are allowed to fall.  He’s not surprised. There is a sadness that has hung over her like a dark cloud these last weeks.  Natasha was never the most effusive member of their team, but she’s seemed even more withdrawn recently. She’s spending less time with her partner as well, which perplexes Steve, though it pleases him more than he’d like to admit.

 

He yearns to take her in his arms, banish her demons, kiss away the frowns and sweep her off her feet like some prince in a fairy tale.

 

Stupid thoughts. Dangerous ones.  Fantasies that will get him in trouble, ending either in paralysis from a widow’s bite, if he's lucky, or an arrow in his throat if he's not.

 

But he can't help himself. He's drawn to Natasha Romanov…like a moth to a flame. The blaze of her hair lures him in even as he understands the futility of his feelings for his teammate.  She's in mourning…though what has caused the sorrow radiating from her he doesn’t completely understand.

 

He approaches her slowly, not masking his footfalls.  "I never could get through it."  He gestures to the heavy tome in her lap.  "Even when I was too sick to go out for weeks and months at a time, it was too dense. A hundred pages in and they're still at the first dinner party, discussing the politics of who's sitting where."

 

She can't deny it, so just raises an elegant eyebrow, letting him continue.

 

"I always thought the Russians were too enamored of letting men die a martyr’s death, while women committing suicide was just a show of weakness…  Nope, entirely too depressing.  No offence intended, of course, but Mark Twain and Shakespeare were more my style."

 

The corners of her lips tug up into the ghost of a real smile, the first she's felt in weeks.  It doesn't surprise her that he would be a fan of Mark Twain, the optimist, humorist and adventurer, capable of transporting a frail young man on all of the voyages he was unable to have in real life. Shakespeare is something of a surprise, but looking deeper, she realizes it shouldn't be.  "Let me guess. St. Crispin day speech, Henry IV, one."

 

His cheeks color slightly and he looks at the ground.  "I've had it memorized since the third grade." 

 

She stares into the fire, smiling.  “We few, we happy few.  We band of brothers.” 

 

Her words are a balm to his cold, tired soul.  They are a team, a family, and he wants nothing more than to see the warmth in her eyes, see her look at him the way he always imagined.  He cannot stop himself. He needs her fire, if only for a moment.  He kneels before the fireplace, gently cupping her cheek, guides her gaze to his.  “By Jove, I am not covetous for gold…”  No not gold, only fire. Her fire.

 

Looking at the man on his knees before her, the earnest yearning in his gaze, Natasha recalls all of the terrible choices made by women in Russian and English literature. How often following your heart leads to tragedy.

 

What if Anna Karenina had stayed true to her hero husband instead of leaving with the dashing Count  — she probably wouldn't have ended up jumping under that train.

 

What if Juliet ignored her idiot feelings and married Paris, who was the most dashing man in all of Italy.  Paris loved Juliet as well. Most versions of the play edit out the scene where Romeo fights a heartbroken Paris to the death on the steps of her grave.  Stupid teenagers.  Stupid feelings. 

 

Love makes fools of us all, with deadly consequences.

 

She looks up at Steve, so beautiful, so true.  He would cherish her, never leave her. He’d never want for anything but her happiness.  WHY he seems to want this anguished, broken shell, she has no idea.  But the look in his eyes leaves no room for misunderstanding, Steve Rogers desires her. 

 

Would it be so bad?  After all, Clint doesn't want her.  And it would make Steve so happy.  It wouldn’t be the all-encompassing passion she felt with her partner…but it's SOMETHING.  Would enjoying something nice be okay after experiencing everything she’s ever wanted?

 

She's so confused.  So broken.  Why is Steve Rogers looking at her, this damaged, compromised killer like she's something precious.

 

"Why do we glamorize love?  It's really dreadful…these 'feelings'."  She spits the word out as though it were a foul thing.  "I thought I was weak for not understanding…  When you kissed me, and just wanted me to be me, I was afraid because I didn't know how…  I wanted to fix it."

 

Understanding dawns on the soldier's face.  She went to her partner, but it's because HE, Steve Rogers was the one who made her curious.  Something dangerous wells up in his chest. It feels suspiciously like hope.

 

"And I DID fix it. I was able to start feeling things…but then…  And now I don't know how to turn them off."  Her eyes look up at him, pleading, bright with tears. This time they are allowed to fall, marring the perfection of her cheeks.  "How to I make it hurt less?"

 

He gives a pained sigh, brushing away her tears, resisting the urge to kiss them away, to taste her.  What kind of idiot is Clint Barton?  How could he possibly leave her?  Mentally he shakes himself and focuses on the question.  "Honestly, the only thing that helped me get over Peggy." He raises her deceptively delicate hands to his lips, kissing and kisses them reverently.  "Was by falling for you."  

 

She shakes her head, tries to draw her hands back, run away before… 

 

" _Hear my soul speak, of the very instant that I saw you. Did my heart fly at your service_."

 

" _Do not fall in love with me I pray, for I am falser than vows made in wine_."  Her words are sharp, fighting Bard with Bard.

 

His brow furrows.  "No.  You are as true a friend, warrior and teammate as I've ever met."  He brushes a thumb across her cheek, gently, wiping away the tears.  "And the most exquisite." 

 

Slowly, hesitantly, he lowers his lips to hers.  The soft contact is enough to make his body shiver with desire.  She is fire, and he’s been cold for far too long.  His arms wrap around her of their own volition, pulling her down into his lap, seeking more of her skin, warmed by the crackling fire.

 

Leaning into the embrace, she allows herself to melt against him. She enjoys the feeling of being able to send tremors through his body with a single kiss. What does it matter that it’s the wrong arms holding her?  That all she wanted in the universe was to have her partner’s rough, demanding hands caressing her skin instead of larger gentle ones.  She will never be in her partner’s embrace again, so why not allow herself to be crushed against Steve Rogers, let him kiss her, caress her.  He is a good man and deserves whatever happiness he could take from her.

 

Threading her fingers through his hair (wrong texture!  her subconscious screams) she parts her lips slightly, allowing him the access he so desperately desires.  Now, ironically, she is able to do this without thinking of putting on a persona, thanks to Clint Barton, the man she so desperately wished would want her in the same way Steve Rogers does.

 

It will be enough, she thinks as he deepens the kiss.  She'll make sure it is enough.  She will be passionate, affectionate, and loyal.  It’s not as if being with Steve is any sort of hardship, she thinks, enjoying the sensations of his hands caressing lightly along her back. She does desire him.  It will be enough…  But it won’t be love, not for her.

 

Natasha Romanov is already in love with her partner who is determined to start a life with a nice, sweet co-ed who will give him a normal life complete with 2.5 kids and a picket fence. 

 

But Steve, Steve Rogers wants her, and he’s here, warm, real, and offering himself to her.  His bright blue, eyes shining with hope, breathless from their kiss.  How can she possibly refuse him?  She smiles, letting him see the desire in her gaze.  "What do you want?  What would make you happy, Captain?"

 

"You," he says simply.  "Be my girl. I'll never let you go.  Not like — never mind — this isn't about me vs. him.  Or it shouldn't be.  This is about us.  This is about what we can be together, Natasha.  I can see it, US, like a sketch in my head.  It's you and me, and it's right. It's beautiful."

 

He means it.  He means it all.  There is no question.  She can see it in his eyes, on his face. He’s practically glowing with hope, he wants it so much.  Steve believes in THEM.  She doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  So instead, she simply winds arms around his neck and inhales the warm, comforting scent of him.

 

And, as always, Steve was ridiculously pleased by her acceptance of him.  How can she deny him when he's made happy by something as meaningless as her body?  She would like to make him happy.  It would be nice if somebody was happy for once.

 

He is so tender with her, so gentle as he lays her out before the fireplace.  Flickering flames dance and play patterns on her skin as he undresses her, folding each item of clothing as he goes.  When she’s completely bared before him, he watches her, as though painting the woman before him in his mind’s eye forever.  His fingers ghost along every inch, watching the play of light and shadows.  Lips follow the line of his fingers, soft, so softly it makes her shiver in anticipation.

 

 

She pulls him to her, lithe fingers making quick work of the buttons of his shirt. She tries to be as conscientious with his clothing as he was of hers.

 

(She struggles to ignore the memory of stripping Clint Barton, where clothing was most often torn, ripped and peeled off with weaponry.  The aftermath often looking like a bar room brawl.)

 

A strangled moan as she brushes against the front of his pants brings her back to the present.  Don’t be distracted, she chides herself.  Don’t be disloyal by thinking of another man during this.  Steve deserves better. He deserves all of you.

 

She pulls them both upright, redoubling her efforts to make him moan, gasp and hiss her name as she kisses her way down his neck, his chest, licking the nearly invisible blonde line of hair leading to his belt buckle.  Making quick work of the rest of his clothing, she smiles as his entire body is taut with the effort to stay still, to let her lead when he’s nearly trembling with the need to touch her.

 

On their knees, facing each other in the firelight, she gives him what he so desperately needs.  “Touch me.”  Permission.

 

Need darkens his bright blue eyes, and he pulls her into his arms, tangling his hands through her fiery locks, caressing the heat of her skin, tasting the fire.  It is his now.  Steve drinks from her warmth, her kisses, her skin, her hair.  He revels in her every shiver, gasp and plea he’s longed to hear from her ever since he set foot on an impossible machine so many months ago.  She feels so good beneath him, he nearly puts his fist though the floor as he enters her.  Her heat, it devours him, enthralls him, and as they move together, for the first time in seventy years, he feels warm.

 

Locked together in a primal rhythmic dance, enhanced senses completely focused on each other, neither of them sees a small, dark-haired figure watching, wracked by silent sobs, and neither of them hear the soft sound of fat tears as they hit the top of a maraschino cherry jar.

 

End - for the moment...  I'll fix it soon :)

 

Oh come on, you thought this was going to be straight up Clintasha?  Bwahahahah.  Gotta stomp on some more feels before everyone (anyone?) gets a happy ending here :)

 

I ruminated on subtitling this chapter – AKA that one time when the author collected death threats…   Sorry my hardcore clintasha readers – I initially had this as a more tame scene…  but the Steve in my head was just too persuasive, there were actually points where I was muttering at the screen “Stop it Steve, this isn’t your lovestory, stop making the story go in this direction.”  Yes, author has issues, one of which is the fact that my muse is a smutty angsty bitch…  So I let him get some.. :)  

 

Thanks as always to my beta goddesses OddDoll and DJliopleurodon and everyone who takes time to like/fave and especially leave reviews, I love to know what you guys love, hate and everything in between.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Favor Between Friends – Part 8
> 
> AKA That one time when Darcy got drunk and accidentally broke Clint Barton’s sanity.

A Favor Between Friends – Part 8

AKA That one time when Darcy got drunk and accidentally broke Clint Barton's sanity.

* * *

Clint Barton stalks the halls of Avenger tower, looking for the tower's resident billionaire, philanthropist, playboy…whatever…

The only thing Clint cares about is that Tony Stark promised him a new arrow design by the day's end, and it's one of the few things the archer has had to look forward to in weeks.

Striding past the library, he immediately does a double take.

Darcy Lewis is slumped in a chair, staring morosely at an antique chessboard. The girl takes a long pull from a glass of light pink fizz garnished with a cherry; is Darcy drinking a Shirley Temple?

"Hi Clint." She doesn't even turn. Just continues staring at a slim, black, glass figurine in the middle of an otherwise perfectly set board. "Does she even know she's doing it?" She cocks her head quizzically as she glares at the piece. "Does she weave her web around you all on purpose, do ya think?" The words are slightly slurred.

Ooookay, the drink in her hand is obviously NOT a Shirley Temple.

"Or is manipulating everyone around her just a super power your partner doesn't know she has…" She cocks her head quizzically. "Perhaps it's something she cant' control." Teeth bite down on a pouty lower lip, stained with cherry juice. "We need to tell her, to make her stop seducing them."

He remains silent. Darcy isn't making sense, it's just the 'Not a Shirley Temple' talking.

Darcy slurps the remnants of her drink loudly through a pink striped straw, then heads to the bar where she mixes a drink that looks a lot like 4 parts vodka and one part grenadine. Shit. He's going to need make sure he's got Tony's hangover remedy ready and waiting tomorrow.

"She really knows how to bring their deepest desires to life, doesn't she?" The words are bitter as she staggers back over to the table to glare at the black queen. "She's becoming what you all need, you know. She discovers what you want most, then fulfills it." Darcy picks up the fragile figurine; her eyes shine tears with fury.

"She's been playing chess with Bruce every Thursday, it's what he desperately wants. A friend. He misses the company of someone who he can engage with intellectually who doesn't demand anything at all from him except his company." She sneers at his skeptical look. "Have you noticed that the 'other guy' looks out for her more recently? It's because she makes Bruce so damn happy arguing Russian chess strategy – in Russian! Every stupid Thursday." She makes a check mark in the air. "Mark acquired, check."

He frowns. Nat isn't seducing the team like marks. She wouldn't do that. She LIKES chess.

Darcy rambles on, oblivious. "She gives everyone what they want, what they silently, desperately long for, Bruce gets the platonic friend of his dreams."

She takes another long pull of vodka and sugary cherry solution.

"Next, oh, let's talk about Tony shall we? Natasha's started helping him hack terrorist databases in her spare time. Oh, look, the sexy assistant he lost when Pepper took over the company, and this one mixes perfect drinks as well." Sarcasm drips from her voice. "Check."

Clint's jaw tenses, even if she doesn't like Tony…she's being helpful, that's all. She's not playing them like marks.

"Thor has been delighted at the friendship she's cultivating with his 'Lady Jane' helping her feel at home here – she's helping him create the family he so desperately craves after losing his Asgardian family." She's waves the glass in a checkmark in the air. "Check."

Enraged, she grabs the queen and points it at him accusingly. "And you… you idiot. She gave you what you wanted most, trust and sex." Her voice drips with distain.

No, it's wasn't like that… Tash would never manipulate him like that. ' _But_ ' an evil oily voice inside his head whispers, ' _If she DID plan it, there was no better way. Make it seem like you were doing HER a favor, and get you to believe you were the only one she TRUSTED to have sex with – without artifice_.'

"But even after she'd gotten you…you weren't enough for her, she had to get HIM too." The tears that have been threatening well up and overflow as she breaks down. "Now it's Cap's turn…her final mark…she's giving him exactly what he wants. True Love." Her shoulders quake with heartbroken sobs.

Can't be true. Playing them all. True love for Captain America. No, not possible. Darcy must have misunderstood.

She reads the disbelief in his eyes and it only enflames her anger. "Screw you Clint, you weren't there. Your 'hawk eyes' didn't see them together, right here!" She throws the queen at him in a fit of rage.

He closes his eyes, catching the piece without looking. It's not true, it can't be true.

"They were quoting god-damn Shakespearian love sonnets to each other."

Natasha whispering love pomes to Steve Rogers. He grip on the figurine tightens imperceptivity; a small crack begins to form.

She sways to the fireplace. "I watched them right here, he begged her to be 'his girl', and she threw her arms around him like he was the hero from a fucking fairy tale." Her anger is washed away in another sea of tears.

His had grips the black queen tighter, the small crack in the base grows.

"She's going to be his girl, because it's what he wants most. Captain America and the Black Widow, America's most famous super-couple."

The crack creeps up to the slim neck of the queen.

"Oh, I see why you miss her now Clint, the floor show was un-fucking believable. He undressed her right here in front of the fireplace while he worshiped her like glass. I couldn't turn away."

The oily voice appears in his head again. ' _It was all an act. She gave you exactly what you wanted. Her trust, she opened up every part of herself to you, because YOU wanted it. Now she's moving on to the next team member...the next man…the next mark_.' The crack winds it's way up the crown.

Her words shatter his psyche one syllable at a time. "I watched them make love for what seemed like hours. Does she always scream like that?"

"The way he kissed the tear tracks from her cheeks was especially poetic, promising her he'd spend eternity making her happy. Do you think we'll get an invitation to the wedding?" She takes one last slug of the drink and uses the glass to make a checkmark in the air. "Check… and mate."

Tears for Steve Rogers, her tears of joy are HIS, she promised that only happened for HIM. She lied. She lied about her happy tears being just for him. She's been lying to him. Involuntarily his grip on the slender queen's neck tightens further.

She's been playing him, playing them all. He was nothing but a fucking mark.

The black queen shatters.

He ignores the blood on his hand as a thousand glass shards explode outward, stalking the hall in pursuit of his lying, deceiving treacherous partner.

* * *

Thanks to my betas, as well as all the folks who left feedback, kudos and pm'ed me asking for the next chapter. Don't worry, more angst, smut, misunderstandings and a hungover Darcy in the near future.


	9. The Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA – That one time when Natasha helped Darcy nurse a hangover.

Padding silently across the kitchen floor, Natasha is startled by a soft, melancholy voice.

"There are over 4 million men in New York."

The redhead turns to see a pair of dark pink fuzzy socks on the table, the hidden figure looks down at the beautiful dark city, ablaze in lights.

"Hell, probably dozens, if not hundreds of super-heroes in this town."

The chair spins, and Natasha sees Darcy Lewis, wearing heart patterned flannel pajamas, matching the hue of her silly socks, and nearly as red as the young woman's bloodshot eyes. Natasha looks down at her own short black silk negligee, wondering if two women with XX chromosomes could possibly be more different.

"So many men…And we have to fall for the same guy." Darcy snorts indignantly, but then her voice softens again with sorrow. "What are the odds."

Shit, Barton must have told her about the 'favor'. The poor girl looks like she's been drinking for hours. Stupid man, why hurt her like that? Clint Barton is an idiot.

Natasha opens the fridge, pushes away a few of the larger bottles, slides a hidden panel open and punches in a code. A quiet hiss and a section of the back slides open, exposing a half dozen vials of a glowing blue liquid. The spy sets in down in front of the girl. "Drink." There is no room for argument.

Hesitantly the girl sips, then gulps the rest greedily. "Oh my god, it's like I'm getting my brain back. This is amazing. What is it?"

"Tony Stark and Clint Barton started hanging out together…between the two of them, they managed to perfect a hangover cure in under a month. Bruce is patenting it now, and by next year they should make enough off it to build our own helicarrier."

"You know, I really want to be furious with you right now, but whatever's in this is enough to take me from murderous to only very angry."

Natasha gives her an apologetic smile. "I am sorry, for what it's worth."

'Not much' Darcy thinks. "Can I ask why? I thought… Clint…" She can't bring herself to ask what went wrong between them.

"If it makes you feel better, it was never romantic. Just sex, a means to an end."

"What?!"

Natasha struggles as she tries to explain the termination of the romance with her partner. "I promise, I did it as soon I as soon as I knew how you felt."

"WHAT?!" Darcy's world goes red with anger. "You KNEW how much I liked him?"

"Of course, I broke it off with Barton as soon as I figured it out."

"Oh my god, you ARE evil. You've been ensnaring them for some evil plot, just like I told Barton, and you're going to kill me now that I know about it!"

Natasha wonders if Darcy's still drunk. "I was a brainwashed soldier, and we prefer the term 'morally ambiguous' to evil." She stalks over to the cowering girl. "And I promise I am NOT evil, but if you don't start talking sense, I may have to use some interrogation techniques you're not going to enjoy… So spit it out, now."

The brunette trembles with a combination of fear and rage. "You… You seduced the man I adore."

"Yes, and I said I'm sorry." She feels like she's talking to a toddler. A toddler who smells like vodka and cherries.

"JARVIS – if Natasha kills me, you need to let Tony know about her evil plan." Darcy cocks her head in askance. "Or did you reprogram him to fall in love with you too?"

Natasha resists the urge the throttle the young woman, as this would seem to feed into her delusion. She must still be drunk, that's the only answer.

"Talk to me when you're sober, you're not making sense." Natasha turns to leave.

"You're not worthy of him."

Natasha spins and glares daggers at the girl. "Look here you insolent child –"

"Screw you. I hate you, you evil lying bitch!"

"The only lie I'm guilty of is telling Clint Barton I didn't want to keep seeing him so he could pursue a relationship with YOU, you spoiled brat. So don't you DARE dump him just because we had sex a few times, it was nothing to him, just a favor between friends."

Darcy's face goes blank for a moment, then, she doubles over, shoulders shaking, barely able to breathe. It takes Natasha a moment to realize the girl is LAUGHING, shaking so hard with laughter she's barely able to make out the words as Darcy grips the edge of the counter in order to stay upright.

"Oh, my god…You're not insane or evil, just…just…a moron."

Natasha frowns at her but it has no affect on the hysterical co-ed.

"Seriously, you're a fucking idiot. Literally."

Natasha begins to rethink the 'no killing Darcy' promise.

"Clint Barton is STUPID in love with you. I have a crush on Steve, and you've managed to fuck this up six ways from Tuesday."

The redhead shakes her head, in disbelief. "Last week, I saw you and Barton, right here…"

"What you saw was us conspiring to get Cap to notice me. Clint was planning and playing wingman."

"You're wrong, he likes you…and you two have been spending more time together lately."

"I've been his FRIEND, nothing more. He's been a wreck since you broke it off, he's so in love with you it's killing him."

Natasha shakes her head in denial.

"Now he knows you're with Cap, and it's nearly destroying him."

Chaotic emotions swirl around her head. Barton loves her. It's not true, it can't be true, not after she just told Steve that she's be his girl-

"Darcy, can you excuse us for a moment?"

The deep baritone interrupts her thoughts.

Natasha and Steve stare at each other across the room as Darcy bolts to her room. The spy begins to approach, but he holds out his hand entreating her to remain where she is.

"Please, Natasha. Let me say what I need to say. I'm afraid I'll lose my nerve if you come to close. You see, I heard…everything." He scrubs a hand across his hair, struggling to find the words. "I never considered myself a selfish man before. But I realized there is a real possibility that you might feel indebted by… by words we said last night. That you might stay with me out of a misguided loyalty."

"I am selfish enough to hope that there is a slight possibility that if I ignored what I heard here, you might come back to me. That I could make you learn to love me the way you love him." His breath hitches. "I want to keep that fantasy, but I know it's not real. You love Barton, and I can't compete with that. Not when he loves you too. I want all of you, and I can't let you be with me just because you know it makes me happy. You deserve more than that, and so do I."

She is in awe of this man, a good man who's honest enough to admit this to her.

Having gotten out what he wanted, no NEEDED to say, he allows himself the luxury of crossing the room and taking her in a fierce embrace. Savoring her heat a final time. She hugs him back, gratitude and joy war for dominance.

He is letting her go, her knees are nearly weak with relief.

"You love him." It's not a question, but she nods in assent.

"Go, find him." He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, a sad melancholy smile tugs at his lips. "Tell him how you feel."

"He won't believe me…"

"MAKE him believe, Natasha. Tell him you love him. Keep telling him until it penetrates that stubborn skull of his. He needs to know the truth, make him believe it."

"The truth?" The words stick in her throat; truth is not what she bargains in.

"This truth." He kisses the top of her head. "Now go, tell your partner you love him and don't take no for an answer."

She hugs him once more, and then turns to leave. As she passes the table, she sees the jar of maraschino cherries, forgotten on the table. Natasha picks it up and hands it to Steve, smiling at his bemused expression. "When you feel up to it, deliver these to Darcy Lewis. She's a very nice girl who's crazy about you, you know."

He nods, it won't be today, but he won't let another 70 years go by either.

The end - for now

All mistakes are mine, and I hope my peeps are doing well. I deeply apologize for the delay.

Thanks for all the reviews and PM's - it's awesome to hear from you!


	10. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA That one time when Natasha tried telling Clint the truth, and didn’t go exactly according to plan

He stares at the city below, a symphony of moving lights. 

A lifetime spent on rooftops and he’s never considered jumping… until now.

 

But, no. He won’t. He CAN’T. For exactly the same reason he wants so badly to meet the pavement right now.

Her. 

Partner, wanton, friend, liar, whore, sacred, profane; she is all things to him, everything.

Natasha will need him in by her side, her partner, and leaving the team or the planet is unthinkable if it means she’ll be harmed because he let her down. He’s in purgatory, hell, forced to watch the woman he loves in the arms of another man till the day he dies. 

There’s a gentle tapping sound. Blood hitting the rooftop. His gaze wanders down to his hand, watching rivers of red dripping from shards of glass embedded in his flesh. He stares at the bloody mess apathetically, oblivious to the pain. 

It’s his bow hand; he should care, he doesn't. 

Nothing means anything any more. She’s taken everything from him. EVERYTHING. 

He takes a long pull from the bottle; the harsh burn does not warm him, the thought of her does— it burns. 

Apathy gives way to a wave of rage. Natasha has been PLAYING him. Playing them all. She never wanted him, never loved him, she just created a scenario where she had the excuse to give him what she knew he wanted most… Played him like a fucking mark. Then moved onto the next person who needed her 'special skill set'. Binding them all to her. 

Now, she’s giving Steve fucking Rogers exactly what he wants, a fairytale romance, a happy ending, TRUE FUCKING LOVE. Natasha will marry the bastard, he’s sure of it… it’s what Steve wants most. He wonders if she’ll ask him to be her ‘bridesman’. 

He sees the wedding in his minds eye, the white wedding… Natasha, a vision in a white gown, Captain fucking America in full uniform, holding hands they stare at each other in adoration as a priest officiates the ‘wedding of the century’. Clint envisions himself and Darcy in matching puke green bridesmaid dresses, watching the ceremony in shared misery.

He feels ill. It has nothing to do with the half bottle of rye in his system.

His ears pound with the sound of blood, rage renders his world white around the edges. How dare she? How dare that woman reduce him to this; a drunken mess, alone on a rooftop, imagining himself in a pea green bridesmaid dress.

He turns away from the sea of lights below determined to find her, to demand answers, to- 

And there she is, framed in the light of the doorway. The glow from within illuminates the hourglass figure, hair nearly aflame in the darkness. Arousal spikes though the rage, and it infuriates him more that she still has this power over him. He hates her. Hates the control she has over him. There is nothing she could do, nothing she could say…

“I love you.”

He stops breathing. 

As gambits go, it’s a good one. But he doesn’t buy it. 

She’s telling him the lie she knows he desperately wants to hear. To keep him by her side, watching her back. 

“Liar.” 

Natasha recoils at the cold venom in his voice. Then steels her resolve, walking toward him, remember what Rogers said… keep telling him the truth till he believes it. 

“I love you.”

He sneers. What a brilliant strategy for playing him like a mark. Playing her own fucking partner like a fucking rookie.

“Stop lying, Natasha. I’m tired of your games.” He glares at her, closing the distance between them slowly; a predator stalking it’s prey. “Let’s play a new game. This game is called ‘Truth’.

Natasha nods, she cannot deny him. That’s why she’s here; to tell him the truth.

“Did you come to me from Steve fucking Rogers bed?”

He watches her flinch almost imperceptibly and knows the amazing Hawkeye has once again hit his target.

“I won’t ask again, Tasha. Did you spend last night in Steve fucking Rogers bed?”

Swallowing back any excuses, unable to lie, she nods, mutely. 

The bottle of whiskey sails past, inches from her head, exploding as it hits the wall behind her. 

“You can’t even say it, can you? You can lie to everyone else, but I’m your partner, you owe me the truth.”

He closes in on her, hoping she’ll retreat, flinch, anything but the cold, emotionless response he’s getting. “Tell me something that isn’t a lie, that isn’t you playing me like a fucking mark.”

She lifts a hand to his face, gently caressing his cheek, tears welling. “I love you.” 

It’s an amazing performance. He wishes he could believe it. 

Frantically he grabs her by the throat; they fall to the rooftop together. She could mop the floor with him in his current inebriated state, but instead, she just stares up at him levelly. “Stop lying, Natasha. I’m not one of your marks, don’t play me like one. Just tell me one thing that isn’t a fucking lie.” His voice is rough with rage.

“I love you.”

The fingers around her throat constrict. “Stop saying that! Stop selling me the lie you think I want to hear! Tell me the truth.”

Tears fall as she gazes up at him, not breaking eye contact, trying desperately to convince him.

“I love you.” 

Clint feels his sanity break, as he watches her tears fall; he knows they are only crocodile, fake, another ploy to convince him of a lie. Darcy told him she cried for Steve Rogers, tears she promised were only for him. 

“The truth, you lying bitch!”

“I love you.” The words are a raspy whisper as she struggles for air.

His own tears of rage and sorrow fall on her cheeks, melding with hers. “Say that one more time and I swear I will end you.” The words are a deadly hiss. 

She looks into his eyes and reads the truth of those words. She could get out of this a dozen ways, she could overpower him, probably, she could even talk her way out of it… And lose him forever. If he won’t believe her now, he never will.

“I love you, Clint.”

He screams, an anguished, injured sound.

Whiteness begins to close in on the edges of her vision, she can barely see the outline of her hand as it come up to caress his cheek once more, but she feels the wet tracks as he leans into her hand, sobbing.

Darkness closes.

 

 

Steve Rogers stares dully at the screens, barely registering the security feeds. 

He thought working might be a decent distraction from the fact that he just pushed his dream girl into the arms of another man.

He was wrong. If anything this is worse, because he has to deal with the pitying looks Bruce Banner keeps throwing the captain’s way. 

“It get’s better you know…”

Bruce’s sympathy is about as subtle as a hulk in a china shop. Steve resists the urge to plant his hand firmly into the nearest wall.

“I know what it’s like…”

Steve shuts his eyes, imagining himself anywhere but here, with a mutant astrophysicist trying to have a chick flick moment.

“When you don’t all the time, get what you want…” Bruce glances backward at the doorway momentarily. “Tony I can hear you breathing back there, and I swear to god if you try and make this into a Rolling Stones quote I won’t step foot on the R&D floor for a week.”

Tony let’s out a disappointed huff. “Ruin all a guy’s fun already. I was just about to drag spangles out to my favorite strip club, see if we could distract the old man.”

Steve closes his eyes, ignore them and they’ll go away. Ignore them and they’ll go away. Ignore them and they’ll go away.

Tony is suddenly distracted by an image on the security feed. “What the fuck?”

Iron Rat 7’s security feed quite clearly shows Clint Barton straddling his partner, hand wrapped around her throat, insanity and wrath written on the archers face.

Steve looks up bolts out the door nearly barreling into a brunette poly sci assistant on his way to stairs.

Banner’s eyes flash green. He stands and is immediately shoved back into the chair by an angry billionaire.

“Tony-“

“No Bruce, you get to sit this one out, if this goes as sideways, I don’t want to be scraping bits of Katniss off my roof for the next year.”

Bruce nods mutely as Tony gets ready to catch who ever might go sailing off the top of his building.

 

 

As her eyes shutter closed, the madness clears.

What has he done?

Hands loosen their deadly hold, begin checking for a pulse when the sound of gravel on the roof draws his gaze…

Just in time to see Steve Rogers barreling into him, landing a solid right hook before the archer can even comprehend the man’s presence. 

“You son of a bitch!”

Another solid haymaker connects. 

Clint barely even tries to avoid the blow. He deserves it, looking over at his partner’s prone form, he knows he deserves it.

“You idiot. It was never me she wanted, it was always YOU, you undeserving ass.”

Denial flashes across the smaller man’s features. It’s not true, can’t be true. She is a liar. She was lying.

“And I, like an idiot, told her to go to you… to tell you she loved you… to make you believe it.” Steve grabs Clint by the throat, roughly. “Believe this Barton, if she dies, you die, I don’t care how many team members I have to go though to get to you.”

Clint looks steadily into the eyes of his team leader. “If she dies, I’ll let you.”

 

Green eyes stare down at the scene below.

His archer and the spider in a dance of love, pain and sorrow. Now the soldier threatening to kill HIS favorite plaything. 

How dare they?

How dare they manage to screw thing up even more beautifully than his best laid schemes.

He had plans… plans to make them pay… promises he intended to keep, and how here they are, infinitely more broken than he had ever dreamed, but WITHOUT HIS HELP.

It's positively insulting.

…

A snap of fingers and the men are rendered immobile. Their eyes widen as Loki glides toward her. He can feel their desperate attempts to break his hold as he brushes back a lock of red hair. 

Fools.

He presses a finger to her forehead. “Awaken my little spider, you’re missing all the good parts.”

She blinks up, uncomprehending.

“Look at them.” 

Natasha looks up to see the two men frozen, locked in battle, Steve’s hand around Clint’s neck.

The mad god lifts her to her feet, almost chivalrous; Taking her hand but refusing to release it as he leads her to circle her two lovers.

“You’ve been so entertaining my dear… I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you choose one. You decide which one lives, and which one gets to die in order to save you. They’d both be happy to sacrifice themselves for you, you know…”

She does.

“Do you pick your love, the archer, your soulmate? Do you sacrifice a man the Avengers so desperately needs, the symbol of hope and freedom for the country, the world, just so you can play spies with your love?”

Cold words, cold breath on her cheek, she can’t breathe.

“Or do you choose the greater good. Give your new country the hero it needs? You must choose little spider… quickly before I lose my patience.”

Looking at the two men she gives the only answer she can.

“No.”

The grip on her wrist tightens painfully as the mad god makes a displeased sound. “That’s not an option Natasha, make your choice.”

“I will not burden either them or myself with that knowledge.”

“Your not playing the game correctly little spider… I can just kill you all…”

“I choose me.” She glares up at the furious green eyes. “The only way you get me to play is by taking them off the board.” Confusion crosses Loki’s features momentarily. “I will go with you willingly, do anything you ask of me… or let you devise whatever tortures you see fit, I’m sure you’re very talented. Kill me… kill us all, I can’t stop you… but I will not choose between them.”

Rage makes the handsome face ugly. “No mercy then, you mewling quim, you expect me to take you up on such a ridiculous offer, when I could crush you like the insect your so obviously are!?!?!” He pushes the redhead to her knees. “I’ll make them I skin you alive… I’ll force them to take turns, devising better tortures with each one, I’ll have you begging for death before-“

The enraged monologue is suddenly cut short as he jerks up, eyes rolling in the back of his head.

“Wooohoo – take that asshat!” Darcy raises her taser in triumph.

Natasha gapes at the girl

Darcy wrinkles her nose at the collapsed figure at her feet. “Gosh these guys love the sounds of their own voices, don’t they.” She presses the taser against the unconscious man and watches him writhe. “That’s for being a pervert.” And again. “And that’s for being an asshole.” Once more. “And that’s for being a lousy brother.”

After that, there really wasn’t much to say.

 

Alone on the rooftop, the sniper and spy lean back and look up at the stars. 

A bottle of whiskey between them.

“Tell me again… Please Natasha. I don’t deserve to hear it, but-“

She puts a finger against his lips. Smiling she whispers “I love you.”

“Again.”

She crawls into his lap, fingers biting into his scalp as she forces his gaze to meet hers. “I love you.” The words are fierce, a demand, a plea.

He catches her lips in his, the world narrowing to the only thing that’s ever mattered, her. 

Rough demanding fingers pull his teeshirt exposing flesh to her ravenous touch. Clint growls and reaches for the hem of her shirt-

…

The screen goes black and Tony whines with disappointment, frantically searching for the tablet. He sees Bruce holding it and glares at him. “Bring it back up!”

Bruce shakes his head. “I agreed to help with the Iron Rat program for security purposes, not for pornographic ones.” He decides not to think about the fact that his reflex time getting to the tablet was probably a little slower than it could have been.

“No, no, no… you don’t understand. Iron Rat 6 knows me, he understands me, that’s why he WANTS me to have the best assassin porn of all time. Iron Rat 6 demands you turn it back on at once!”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “We made the rats cyborgs, not psychic, Tony. Iron Rat 6 couldn’t care less about naked assassin porn and is heading back to the lab.”

Muttering threats under his breath. Tony goes back to the bar, glowering.

Steve Rogers gives a whistful sigh, looking at the blank space where image of the lovers was moments ago, then turns to Bruce. “Thank you, for that. Few people can handle him so well… You must have been channeling Pepper Pots.”

Bruce smothers a smile and pours them both tea as they settle in for the evening. “Sometime… it feels more like I’m channeling Jerry Springer.”

The two men clink glasses and turn to the computers, time to refocus and save the world. Again.

 

 

Well kids, that’s it, I hope you've enjoyed the ride. Sorry the last part took so long – and thanks to everyone who checked in to make sure I hadn’t died after it took a year to post the last chapter ☺

A million thanks to DJliopleurodon and OddDoll for their beta work. You all rock my stripy socks.

Would love to hear what everyone thought – reviews = love!


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